


Tonight, 3

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Voyeurism, lots and lots of touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bond sees something he ought not to have seen, he and Q work out an unusual arrangement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight, 3

It is, in a way, Bond’s fault.  He’s never been the sort to check in from a mission just after its completion; if he checks in, it’s usually the day after, or the week after or whenever he finally sends the girl he’s brought home back to her own life.  He’s never come straight to headquarters after his plane’s wheels have touched down, never ever shown up in the wee hours of the morning after a mission that’s stretched the better part of a month.  The last ninety-odd hours have been fraught with peril.  He should have collapsed boneless into the back of a cab and be on his way home, where a bottle of Glenlivet 18 sits waiting to welcome him back to England’s green shores.

Or if it’s anyone’s fault, perhaps it’s Tanner’s for not prying the quartermaster out of his hiding hole, reading him the riot act for staying so late his overtime is on quad rate, and shooing him home.  Maybe Moneypenny should have physically dragged him away from Q-Branch, knowing the stupid things a man might do when he’s cleverer than he ought to be and exhausted past the point of stupidity.  Either way, Q-Branch is deserted when Bond enters the department, not even the ghost of a skeleton crew left behind. 

No major cases going now that the New Dehli incident has finally, finally wrapped, but Bond wants to drop his equipment off so he can go home and sleep for a week.  He wouldn’t have been able to get in if Q weren’t around somewhere, but the minions’ stations are cold and sleeping.  He’s just wondering if he ought to check the firing range—a thought that puts a lump of chill into his belly, remembering that calm, posh voice in his ear dutifully for the last thirty-six of the hours of his mission—when he catches just the flicker of light under the door of Q’s office.  He’d thought it was closed down, too; floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains obscure the window, and he knows Q prefers to draw them so he can watch through the thick bulletproof glass when he’s in there—doesn’t like to use his office unless necessary, actually—and the light is so faint that he’d have missed it if something hadn’t cast a shadow of movement that caught his eye.  He toes his way over to the door, but it’s soundproof; the RFID in his badge makes only the tiniest of sounds when he scans it and swings the door open, Walther at the ready, to find—well.

Well.

Q blinks up at him, eyes wide and owlish behind his glasses.

“Internet pornography?  Really?” Bond asks, and before he can really lay it on, Q darts a tongue out to wet dry lips.  His cock is unrepentant as it pokes through his flies; it dawns on Bond in slow increments that Q doesn’t look too repentant, himself.

“Tension relief.  I’m sure you’re aware of the benefits.  I’ve been here, awake, for almost two days straight; in the last week I’ve had less than ten hours’ sleep total.  I needed a way to turn my mind off, and—why am I explaining myself to you, anyway?” Q asks, rolling his shoulders before turning back to the screen.  There’s a—Bond tips his head to the side to better understand what’s going on.

“Isn’t that insecure?” he asks, and Q huffs with irritation.

“I’d hardly think so, when you’ve got one as huge as that,” Q replies, nudging his glasses back up with a knuckle.

“The connection, I mean,” Bond says because, well, yes, he supposes, if you had one that huge you probably had very little to be insecure about.  A sweet-looking young man on the screen proceeds to take the entire thing in one gulp and Bond groans in sympathy.

“Unsecured.  No, of course not.  And I’m not using my own system permissions to access this, anyway—Wilson in domestic contracts has an internet gambling problem and an addiction to amateur pornography, with markedly better taste in the latter than the former.”  Q’s tone takes on a breathy, distracted quality, and Bond discerns the soft, slick sounds of skin on skin a fair bit realer than the tinny panting coming from the headphones looped around Q’s slender, flushing neck. 

He’s, Bond realizes.  “You’re,” he says.  Q’s laugh has a sharp edge, and Bond’s vision blurs a bit when he looks, really looks, into the hollow beneath Q’s desk to see him touching his cock.

“And?” Q asks.  “Be quiet, Bond.  You can leave your equipment on the desk and go, if you like.  I’ll check it all in once I’ve finished.”

“I can’t believe you’d misuse government resources this way,” Bond tells him, grinning at Q’s dramatic sigh.

“Bond.  Shut up or go.”

“Or?” Bond finally catches, but Q doesn’t grace him with a reply.  Curiously, he tips the chair back a bit, speeds the motion of his hand on his cock, and very deliberately ignores the way he’s created a clearer view of his actions.  Bond is dutifully silent and Q comes a few minutes later, rucking his shirt out of the way to spill on his belly, all lean lines and curving spine, his eyes shut tight and mouth open and silent.  When he’s done, he sucks the come from his own fingers and glances at Bond lazily.  Bond frigs himself nearly raw in the shower that night and resolves to make more late-night stops over in Q-Branch.

The next three times, he shoots for two a.m.  Twice he’s disappointed when his badge won’t let him in—the quartermaster is out and the branch closed—and once he walks into the middle of an active retrieval, 009 coming back from a sensitive political gambit in Geneva.  The look Q gives him is equal parts surprise and exasperation before teasing recognition slips over his face.  He gets a text message the next afternoon that says simply, “ _Tonight, 3_ ”.  The number’s blocked, comes up unregistered when he tries to trace it, but when he reaches Q-Branch at a quarter past, his badge grants him access easily to the ghostly labyrinth of computers. 

“You’re late,” Q says when the door opens.  “I’m already done.  Sorry.”

“That was quick,” Bond replies peevishly.

“There are benefits to punctuality,” Q says tartly.

“I’ll remember next time.”

Q looks at him, considering, before his lips tilt into a tiny smile.  “See that you do.”

It becomes a habit.  He gets the message on days Q’s planning on performing and shows up, the dutiful audience.  He’s not allowed to touch—Q makes that very clear—neither Q nor himself.  Q’s not interested in Bond’s pleasure; he prefers touching himself in front of a captive, appreciative spectator, and Bond prefers watching as Q carefully works himself up to orgasm, fingers trembling against his skin as he brushes them against his throat, his chest, his inner thighs.  His lips move as if he’s praying; Bond watches him come murmuring  _God_  and echoes it later.  Always later; never in this tiny room, Q’s office, where Q teaches him all the things he likes best and doesn’t give a damn for testing Bond’s knowledge.

And Christ if it isn’t incredible each time.  Bond leaves aching, nearly staggering, every time.  He’d worry about coming in his pants like a horny teen if it weren’t also damnably short; Q gets off like a jackrabbit, sometimes twice a night before turning sated, sleepy eyes on Bond and kicking him out of his office.  And slowly, a plan forms.

He’s early this time.  The curtain’s open, and he passes the most overachieving of the interns on his way in as she heads out.  Q shoots him a surprised look when he opens the door, kicking off his shoes like they’re cheap loafers before padding over to the guest chair he’s been using and sprawling like it’s the most comfortable thing in the world.  Q’s eyebrows go up; he jerks back from his keyboard as if he’s been scalded, striding over to close the curtain before turning back to where Bond has taken off his tie and is loosening his collar.  Bond raises a challenging brow, and Q makes a face like he’s been sucking lemons.

“I’m not really interested right now, Double-oh-seven,” Q tells him crisply, though he slides forward in his seat like an anxious child when he sits back down.

“That’s okay,” Bond tells him, methodically pulling his cufflinks apart before dropping them on the edge of Q’s desk.  He rolls his sleeves deliberately, careful not to bend the cuffs as he folds them into the crook of his elbows.  “I can make myself comfortable.  The view’s nice enough.”

“I do actually have work to do today,” Q says, but it sounds more like he’s reminding himself.  He’s starting to blush, and Bond has well learned by now that it’s not about being shy—Q’s anything but shy—but more about the honest way Q’s body refuses to lie about his arousal.  Every part of him goes pretty and hot and pink when he’s turned on, blood rushing to his skin and eyes dilating until they’re slim rings of storm green around pupils the size of a ten pence piece. 

“I’m thinking I’d like you to sit on my lap today,” Bond continues blithely, shifting in the seat until his knees are spread.  “Get a good, close look as you play with yourself for me.”

“I think not, Mr. Bond,” Q says, and though he sounds like he might be interested, Bond can tell from the line of his shoulders that he’s walking a fine line.  “We’ve already discussed—”

“Oh, I know,” Bond agrees.  “I won’t touch you, no matter how much I’d like to see how it tastes.  Hands to myself, I promise.”

“Your promises aren’t worth a tinker’s damn,” Q comments dryly, but there’s a spark.  Bond has him on the line.

“You can tie my hands if you like,” Bond says generously, but Q shakes his head, sighing.

“You won’t leave me alone until I’ve done, will you?” he asks, and Bond bites back the sarcastic smile that comes up.  As if Q hasn’t been tossing off for him, first under his desk and then eventually in the middle of the room, face contorted with pleasure and brow beaded with sweat.

“Oh, I can wait if you can,” Bond says and grins because no, Q can’t wait.  He’s already shivering, cock hardening and fingers twitching against his thigh.  Bond watches him play it cool, adding lines of text and then erasing them from the e-mail he’s writing as if he can’t make up his mind what to say; Q turns to him, smile helpless as he’s already thumbing open the buttons on his cardigan.

“Might as well,” Q says, and Bond’s smile is nearly all teeth now.

“Might as well,” Bond agrees.

Q gets his kit off in a way that’s nothing like a striptease and simultaneously the most sensuous thing Bond’s seen.  Jumper hung over the back of the chair, shirt and vest folded neatly, shoes set aside and belt undone; here Q pauses, checks the security feeds, and locks the department down tight.  He might be willing to cross a line or two, but Bond walking in had truly been a fluke.  M could still get in—Bond takes a moment to imagine Q stroking himself while the prim director watches and feels heat creep around the edge of his collar—but not many else.  Q-Branch is essentially offline for now, and Q is dropping trou in the center of his office.  Pants and trousers are kicked aside, but all remarks are forgotten when Q carefully perches on the end of Bond’s knee.

“Did you forget?  You asked,” Q murmurs, shifting until he’s comfortable.  “It’s a compromise.”

“Darling, you can negotiate like this any time,” Bond manages, making a show of tucking his hands behind his head.  Q smiles, and this close Bond can see the way his laugh lines crease.  He smells perfectly edible.

“Remember,” Q breathes, wrapping a hand around himself, “no touching.”

“Ah,” Bond agrees, mouth dry.

“Do you swear it, Double-oh-seven?  Because I’ve seen the way you look at me when we do this.  The things you say: you’d like to get your mouth on me, you wonder how I taste.  But would you really be interested if I let you have what you say you want?” Q asks.  He bites his lip around a moan, and Bond groans for him. 

“All that and more,” Bond promises.  “I swear it.”

“You know, I’d almost believe you.”  Q’s panting for air now, fist working around his cock enthusiastically.  Bond can smell him on the air; Q whines, hips bucking as he twists his palm around the head.  “I think you think you’d want it, and I think you’d think that until you had it.  You talk a good game, Mr. Bond.  Pretty words, and pretty words about my—ah!”

“Oh, darling.  Don’t come yet.  Don’t you let it be over just yet,” Bond pleads, just enough steel in his voice to keep from sounding pathetic.

“Can’t help it,” Q says, laughing breathlessly around a choked gasp.  Seizing his courage, Bond captures his wrist, pulling it away.  “Hey—!” Q squawks, too confused for the moment to register what’s happening.  His hips twitch up; Bond nuzzles his face into the musky center of Q’s palm, tasting the scent.  “Bond, no.”

“Please, darling.  I won’t—I’ll keep my hands above the waist.  Just,” he breaks off, voice ragged.  He’s harder than he can remember being, but he bites his lip to keep from licking a stripe down the middle of Q’s hand.  “You smell  _incredible_.”

“I’m not letting you take liberties—” Q protests.

“You think I wouldn’t want to fuck you,” Bond tells him, breath hot on the mound of Mars on Q’s hand.  “You do.  You think I could see all of this, see you hard and aching for me just the way you are now—put your other hand on my shoulder, Q; don’t touch.  Not just yet—and you think I wouldn’t want…as if I haven’t gone home aching for you, haven’t pleasured myself and wished it were you.  Good God, Q, you think I wouldn’t beg.  Wouldn’t throw everything away for the chance to…my mouth waters for you.  I see you touching your cock—I see you playing with your cock just for me—and I want to put my hands down my pants and never take them out again.  I want to put them down yours and be the reason you’re crying out, the reason you’re coming. 

“It could be so good.  I could be so good to you, Q.  You would never want for—I don’t even know what to promise you.  I don’t know what could make you want this as much as I do.” 

Q’s broken moan startles him; he looks as shattered as Bond feels, lips open and bitten, curls knotted, eyes wet.  “Please,” Q manages, tugging at his wrist in Bond’s grip even as his free hand clenches in the lapels of Bond’s jacket.

“Not yet,” Bond says.  He wants to kiss him; he doesn’t dare.

“Please,” Q says again.  His voice cracks. 

“Not yet,” Bond repeats.  “When I finished sucking you, when you were sore and tender and couldn’t come any more, I’d fuck you.  You get so lazy when you come; I’d lick you open until you were hard again, and when you were, I’d bury myself in that tight little arse.  But you’re not half as scrawny as you seem—you’d give me a ride, wouldn’t you?  And I’d stroke you off at the same time, until you’re twitching around me so hot and happy and stuffed with my cock.  How hard would you come around my cock, Q?  Tell me.”

“So hard.  God, please let me.  I need to come.”

When Bond releases his wrist, Q’s hand drops to his lap.  He’s coming in seconds, streaking smears up the front of Bond’s shirt; his jacket’s a wash unless his dry cleaner can work miracles, and Bond himself is shivering on the edge of oblivion.  Q keens as he comes, the sound dying out to be replaced by shuddering.  It takes a few minutes for the aftershocks to slow and Q to crack one baleful eye.

“Fuck your fist, Bond,” Q instructs.  Bond blinks at him like a lazy cat for a minute until he realizes Q is serious—“Take down your trousers and make yourself come.  Now.” 

It’s embarrassingly fast.  For all his amusement at Q’s hair trigger, Bond finds himself spurting off like he’s seen his first set of tits.  Q watches dispassionately as he stains his shirt further, writing it off as well as the jacket and grunting when the stars finally start to recede from his vision.

“Now get out of my office,” Q tells him, pushing off of Bond’s lap to stand stiff-legged and sore, stretching languidly before collecting his clothes and dressing again.  He doesn’t bother looking back at Bond, and Bond goes home.  It’s four in the morning and he fiddles with himself until dawn, thinking about the sweat-sex smell of Q’s hand and the way he’d trembled against him.  He’s about to write it all off as a loss when his mobile chimes; the number’s blocked but the message is clear:

 _Today, lunch_.


End file.
